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The Poor Little Rich Girl
by
Her father went on with his explaining, low and cheerily, and as confidentially as if to a grown-up. Across from him, listening, was her mother, one soft cheek lowered to rest close to the small face half-hidden in the pillow.
When her father finished speaking, Gwendolyn gave a deep breath—of happiness and content. Then, “Moth-er!”
“Yes?”—with a kiss as light as the touch of a butterfly.
Her eyelids, all at once, seemed curiously heavy. She let them flutter down. But a drowsy smile curved the pink mouth. “Moth-er,” she whispered; “moth-er, the Dearest Pretend has come true!”